Trials and Tribulations

Trial (def.): a test of performance; synonyms- test, tryout, experiment, pilot,

Tribulation (def.): a cause of great trouble or suffering; synonyms- trouble, difficulty, problem, worry, anxiety, burden, ordeal

There’s a hole in my living room wall. The wall used to house my 57-inch rear projection TV, so you can just imagine how large a hole it is. The wall used to be the back of the closet for our spare room. You can walk into that room, literally, through the opening in the wall; there’s no need to use the door. There are also two holes in my $900 rug in the living room, one the size of a quarter and the other the size of two quarters. The hole in the wall was intentional; the latter two carpet holes were thanks to my chewing-stage puppy, Sonny. It’s amazing how you can still love a dog when he exasperates you to no end. Mark said to me today as we left the house, “Where do you think the fibers of the carpet are- in his stomach I guess, right?” “Yep,” I answered, “along with all the bugs and leaves he’s been eating amongst other inedible items.” It’s a good thing I pulled the 2-inch block of sheetrock out of his mouth the other day. It must be at least four times a day that I’m sticking my fingers down Sonny’s mouth to retrieve something that’s not supposed to be in there. The inside of his stomach must resemble Moby Dick’s, I’m afraid.

The intentional hole, the one in the wall, is a minor tribulation. It is due to the fact that my mother is moving into the spare room. She has been residing in an assisted living facility for the last seven years. Assisted living facilities are quite expensive, especially on a fixed income. We have prolonged this situation for as long as possible; however, my mother’s bank account and the current state of the economy, which has negatively affected the growth of her stocks, have speeded up the inevitable. Don’t misunderstand me; I am thrilled that my mother is moving in with us. She’s my best friend. Lindsay and Kim are happy about it, as well. Mark is doing all he can to get the house ready for her, e.g., the hole. However, there are some who don’t share our feelings. For example, in seven years, my mom has made friends at the assisted living facility. Mrs. Horseradish (no that’s not her real name- she just happens to be the owner of a famous company that sells horseradish) is really upset that my mom is moving. But because my mom doesn’t own a horseradish company to help fund her senior years, she needs to move out. The people who work there are also very sad about my mom moving; they already made plans to visit her. My mother is very popular. Then there’s my aunt, my mother’s sister-in-law, whom she shares a suite with- she’s losing her roommate; needless to say, she is quite upset, too. The more intense tribulations, though, lie with my older sister, who is so upset that our mother is moving further out on Long Island, she won’t even speak to me.

Then there was the tribulation, which occurred last night. Mark went to Lowe’s to get the materials (sheet rock and two by fours) to replace the wall in the living room and threw his back out. Ugh. And of course I feel guilty about this because while Mark was hauling and loading and unloading these materials from the store to the car to the house for my mother, I was with the bride for our makeup trial. Yes, I was sitting on a cushioned stool at the MAC counter in Macy’s, while Briana was putting on my makeup so I can get a preview of how I will look on the day of the wedding. Yes. My husband was lugging four panels of sheetrock and several two by fours to get the room ready for my mom while I was getting false eyelashes put on. When I came home, I walked into the bedroom to show him my beautifully made-up face and he commented, with a weary tone in his voice,

“I like it a lot.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, “My eye shadow is too dark, right?”

“No. I just threw my back out. I’m in agony.”

Uh oh, I thought to myself. “I’m so sorry. Did you take anything?”

“No, because you didn’t buy any Advil. There was nothing to take.”

I am going to hell, I thought to myself.

Not everything goes smoothly. I should have known this. Life is full of trials and tribulations. It’s what gives us things to talk about, to scream about, to laugh about, to cry about, to be elated over or sick over and to write in a blog. The makeup trial went well. I was happy with it even though Briana used the euphemism “mature eyelids” to explain to Lindsay why she can’t put a certain color on my eyes. “Mature eyelids?” I repeated. “Does that mean I have wrinkled eyelids?” I asked. “Yeah,” she laughed, “they teach you in training all these things to say to make it sound nicer.” “What would you call my droopy boobs- ‘mature breasts?’ I questioned, rhetorically. Suddenly the word mature is an expletive to me. But I got over it, until, in the parking lot, as I went to get into the car, I stepped into a big wad of gum. I hate that. Naturally, I cursed the inconsiderate bastard who threw it there. Then I wondered about karma- maybe the inconsiderate bastard was an innocent child? At that moment, Lindsay got a message from my nephew’s fiancé to call her. That’s a little odd, because Lindsay, in the five years she knows this girl, doesn’t really speak to her at all. So, she calls and the conversation goes like this:

(My nephew’s fiancé’s words are in black, Lindsay’s words are in pink, and my reactions are in blue.)

I know we sent back the response card, but I just got a new job and I really can’t take off, so I can’t come to your wedding. I’m really sorry.

(She’s a personal trainer- I would like to know who is going to want to be personally trained on Labor Day weekend?)

Well that sucks.

I know. But you know we’ll still give you a gift.

What do you mean, isn’t Danny coming to the wedding? He is my first cousin.

Yeah, he 's the cousin. I know he put in for the day but he isn’t sure he’s going to get it. I’ll have him call you.

(What’s the point of sending a response card if you’re not really sure you’re coming?)

Another tribulation. This is Lindsay’s cousin who is three months older than her. Almost every baby picture I have of her, including her first professional photograph, is with him by her side. They went to middle school together and high school. She guesses he doesn’t feel close to her- always throws it in her face how his cousin from California is his favorite. He didn’t come to the engagement party either. Never called to tell her he got engaged, didn’t call her to congratulate her on her engagement; nor when she was in the hospital with pancreatitis.

Lindsay looks at me in disbelief. Then she calls him. She gets his voicemail, leaves a message. He calls back. Tells her he won’t know if he can get off from work until a few days before. She tells him that he should know (because he’s making a wedding, too) that you can’t tell the caterer the count a few days before. She tells him she has friends who are cops who are coming- they got the day off. He doesn’t even say he’s sorry. She is very upset. The tone and pitch of her voice says it all. At one point, she’s yelling at him and doesn’t hear him. “I feel like I’m talking to dead air. Are you there? Danny?” Finally, he responds, “I don’t know what to say.” Now, this is a historical moment in the life of my nephew, who started talking before a year old, telling elaborate stories. He is the king of hyperbole and tall tales. And now he’s speechless. Amazing. The most important day of her life and her first cousin, who doesn’t seem to care at all about her, cares even less to be there to share her joy. Amazing.

“You know what, Dan. Don’t worry. I’ll just put you down as a no. Have a nice wedding!” She hangs up. Her trial makeup for the wedding is in jeopardy. She starts to cry. The false eyelashes are getting soaked with her tears. Tribulation tears. Your family let you down tears. I don’t know what to say. We stop off at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. Lindsay cries some more. My nephew, Sam, 16, lets her cry on his shoulder. Aunt Bonni consoles her and tells me my eye makeup is too dark. My brother tells me that he likes my makeup, but hates my red hair because it makes me look like our Aunt Lillian, my father’s sister, whom we all couldn’t stand. He tells me all that’s missing is her green hat. We laugh, at my expense. Ha ha.

We drive home. Lindsay calls my mom to tell her about her grandson. My mother is sad. She feels guilty. That’s nothing new. She always thinks everything is her fault, somehow.

A day of trials and tribulations.

I left this morning, happy to go to work to take my mind off some of this drama. When I come home there is no hole in my living room wall, not anymore. Like magic. That’s nice. My mother has a closet. That's nice, too.

I call my mom to tell her about her closet and room. She tells me about a dream she had about my dad. Here is what she said:

We were in the house on Avenue K. Your father looked gorgeous. We were sitting at the dining room table. He said to me, “We raised four children. It wasn’t easy. But we did it. And they’re all good kids. And they’re all successful. We did a good job.”

I’m not sure what this dream means, but thanks, Dad.